Emily Louise MacLauren
Then she put the book on Hattie’s desk as the bell rang.
With the class came a visible and audible excitement. Mr. Page followed, his hair wildly erect, and he conversed with Miss Amanda hurriedly.
With visual signalling and labial dumb show, Emily Louise implored enlightenment.
“Ours is the honour class, so we’re to be chosen,” enunciated Hattie, in a staccato whisper.
Rosalie was nearer. “There’s to be a presentation—in the Chapel,” whispered Rosalie; “sh-h—he’s going to choose us—now——”
Mr. Page and Miss Amanda were surveying the class. Some two score pairs of eager eyes sought each to stay those glances upon themselves. Perhaps Mr. Page lacked courage.
“The choice I leave to you,” said he to Miss Amanda. Then he went.
Miss Amanda was also visibly excited. She settled her chain and puffed the elaborate coiffure of her hair, the while she continued to survey the class. She looked hesitant and undecided, glancing from row to row; then, as from some inspiration, her face cleared and she grew arch, shaking a finger playfully. “To the victors belong the spoils,” she said with sprightly humour, “and it will, at least, narrow the choice. I will ask those young ladies whose fathers chance to be of a Republican way of thinking to please arise.”
A silence followed—a silence of disappointment to the many; then Emily Louise MacLauren arose.